


Another Fall From Grace

by Fudgyokra



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Casual Sex, Daddy Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Involving both Jay and Tim, M/M, Mentions of Underage, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Past Relationship(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 19:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12488940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: It wasn’t quite his plan to fall into bed with Tim Drake.





	Another Fall From Grace

If these four white walls could see him now, they’d probably damn him to hell if they were able. It wasn’t quite his plan to fall into bed with Tim Drake, Bruce’s newest prodigy and his replacement to boot, but the boy was just too pretty, lithe and willing.

It was a plea to his lost teenage years that called Jason to him, he’d guess, since Tim had spent that time doing everything a kid was supposed to do and then some. Jason was jealous, if he were being honest with himself; he’d had a misguided sense of propriety, of uptight class, when he was under Bruce’s wing.

Tim did not have that sense. Instead, he got right down on his knees the moment Jason asked, like if he’d snapped his fingers he would cum right there, ready for guidance, more than ready to be praised.

It almost hurt him, how good Tim was at this—already so experienced at nineteen when Jason was well into his twenties and hadn’t done this more than twice. Tim’s mouth was expert, hot and wet and everything he wanted, and it made him forget for a while why he cared.

The insistent flashing from Tim’s phone should have been the first clue that they shouldn’t have been doing what they were doing, but it laid abandoned a few feet away on the dresser while they occupied the bed, clawing through clothes with fervor that would’ve gone through skin and bone if it could have. Jason was so deep inside him he thought he might cry at the contact, mouth ajar while Tim’s eyes rolled like dice, more willing than anyone he’d ever met, other than himself.

It was probably a bad sign how desperate he was, but Jason never abided by bad signs. He’d fucked Dick to prove it, and Dick was more of an innocent party than Tim ever could hope to be. To this day, they didn’t speak, and Jason was haunted by the notion that what they’d done was _wrong_ , if only because Dick let it be that way.

And now he fucked around with Midnighter, like that fixed everything because Midnighter was twice his age instead of half, as if that made a damned difference. It said what Jason was too afraid to say: that their issues with house and home, their issues with _Father_ had changed them in ways they were too afraid to admit, even to each other.

Probably, he shouldn’t be blowing through Bruce’s ring of vigilantes like they were cheap drugs, but fuck him if he ever listened to Bruce’s advice on the matter. When worst came to worst he’d even fooled around with Damian, who was barely seventeen and pushing boundaries for the winner of the “desperate for human contact” category. That alone was enough to make him the worst person of all time, he figured.

“That’s the thing about Bruce,” Jason said casually, while Tim rode his cock like he’d never done it before, gasping at every little movement, “he raises these lunatics and hopes the best for ‘em without actually trying to raise them.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, already higher than could be helped and fucked out from whatever the hell he’d been doing with Connor and Wally before he’d happened upon Jason’s meager apartment that night. “I get it.”

“You ought to know,” Jason commented without humor. “You’re one of them. You know, the pretty little boys he picks out of the dirt and hopes will become better than him, somehow.”

“Mm.” Tim’s response was noncommittal, but his dedication to bucking his hips against Jason’s was anything but.

“You’re not very responsive when you’re stoned, are you?” Jason asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Nah,” Tim answered, tipping his head back.

“Why don’t you touch yourself,” Jason offered with a fond smile. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna do it for you.”

“Don’t wanna,” Tim replied, clutching Jason’s shoulders like a vice. “This is fine. All I need.”

“You’re a freak, y’know that?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Jason released a shaky breath when Tim forced himself down. The little dips he gave, taking him in as deep as he could while he panted against his neck, couldn’t be helped.

“Good?” he asked. His nails were digging into Jason’s shoulders.

“Takes one to know one,” he elaborated, letting Tim take the lead and turn around, riding him in reverse until he swore he’d never touch another person again, it was so fulfilling. Jason came with his hands tight on the other’s bony hips and his mouth latched to his shoulder, leaving a sizable mark at which Tim keened. Jason would like to see him try and explain _that_ to Bruce.

Tim was perfectly articulate when he was sober, but the combination of vodka and weed probably made him stupid, for all Jason knew. The only thing he _did_ know was that Tim came to him for help, and all he’d done was dope him up and fuck him raw, like the exact sort of criminal he was supposed to be warding off. “You always were my favorite Robin, out of the lot of ‘em,” he mumbled against damp skin.

Tim growled low in his throat, leapt off him and thrust his length against his abdomen. “Fix that,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but Jason obliged with a nod. It didn’t hurt him a bit to get his hand around Tim’s aching cock, jerking him until the other man moaned someone else’s name as he came, face pretty and pink with his mouth wide and his tongue out. Jason could’ve painted a picture of him.

“Anytime, baby,” he said, watching as Tim sighed out what he hoped was an affirmation and then sprawled back across the couch in a corpse-like slumber.

He hummed to himself, got up, and grabbed another drink. “To Bruce’s shitty parenting,” he muttered to no one, knocking the shot back like he’d rather drink than breathe. Sometimes, he supposed that was true.


End file.
